The palace changes in Agamemnon’s presence. Servant girls quickly grow wary of him, falling quiet when he approaches, hurrying along the corridors when they have to pass him. They avoid him as best as they can, but some—those who prepare his bath and tend his room—are carrying small bruises on their arms and faces. At dinner, as they pour his wine and he stares at their breasts and faces, they keep their eyes down.
The men, though, seem to respect him. Agamemnon and Menelaus start visiting the gymnasium when Spartan warriors are training. Soon, all the boys can talk about is how the sons of Atreus challenge young men and win every wrestle. It is something unheard of in Sparta, where guests and visitors usually steer clear of the training ground.
It is a strange change to witness. Halls and corridors remain the same, with their bare walls and dark corners, but a new light is shimmering beneath the surface, a new promise of violence. It makes Clytemnestra think of the sky when it is gray and sullen, endless clouds never breaking into rain. Just a tiring, never-ending threat.
*
“If you keep fighting thinking you can win, then you’ll keep losing, Timandra.”
They are on the terrace, Clytemnestra standing over her younger sister, keeping her down with her foot. Now that she is pregnant, she isn’t allowed to train in the gymnasium, so she finds other ways to keep fit while her belly expands—wrestling her sister, riding, shooting arrows and spears in the evening, when the training yard is quiet. It keeps her mind off Tantalus’s absence.
Despite the cold winter breeze, the sun glows bright and the ground is warm under their feet. Helen is sitting in one corner, laughing at Timandra’s efforts to beat her sister. When Clytemnestra lets her up, Timandra pulls a face and tries to punch her.
“Don’t let others see you are angry when you lose,” Clytemnestra says. She trips her, and Timandra falls again, keeping her face as expressionless as she can. Still, her cheeks are red, and Helen laughs again.
There is the sound of scurrying feet, and a servant girl walks onto the terrace to bring them bread and honey. She kneels next to Helen to pass her the bowl, careful to avoid Clytemnestra and Timandra as they wrestle.
“Wait,” Helen says, grabbing the helot’s arm. The girl stops, her hands placing the bowl down carefully. There is a big bruise on her cheek, the kind that comes from contact with the handle of a dagger. Behind them, Clytemnestra takes Timandra’s arm and pretends to twist it—“See?” she is saying. “You have to slide this way.”
“Who did this to you?” Helen asks. The girl doesn’t speak. “Answer,” Helen orders.
The helot whispers inaudibly, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Clytemnestra stops fighting Timandra, her body suddenly tense. “What is this about?” she asks.
“Show her your cheek,” Helen orders. The helot obeys, her skin sweaty and bruised under the light, as if rotten. Timandra, bored, is tugging her sister’s arms.
“It was Agamemnon, wasn’t it?” Clytemnestra says.
The servant nods. The bruise is turning green at its edges.
“Did he force himself on you?” Clytemnestra persists, her voice cracked with anger. Timandra stops tugging, alert, scanning her sisters’ faces.
The helot shakes her head. “He isn’t interested in servants,” she mumbles.
“Why did he strike you, then?”
The girl shrugs.
“You can leave now,” Helen says softly. The helot casts one scared look behind her shoulder, as though checking that no one has overheard, then walks away, her dark hair around her head like an oily rag.
“We should tell Mother,” Helen says. “This isn’t the first time it has happened. Have you seen those poor women who prepare his bath?”
“Why do you think he doesn’t sleep with servants?” Clytemnestra asks. She has seen Agamemnon grabbing girls, and she knows Menelaus often takes servants, the prettiest ones, to his room.
“I am not sure,” Helen says, “but I think he wants only power, that above all else.”
In the sky, clouds gather like sheep in a clear meadow. Clytemnestra is beginning to feel sick.
“Maybe we should go back inside,” Helen suggests, looking worried.
Clytemnestra touches her belly and feels her stomach rattling. Then she pushes Timandra, hard. “We haven’t finished here.”
Timandra recoils, readying her fists. She lunges, heat sparking in her, and Clytemnestra moves aside to avoid her. As they punch and wrestle, there is an edge to them. They are angry and afraid, violence crawling under their skin like maggots.
Above them, the clouds grow dark, black and blue bruises scattered throughout the sky.
*
They find Leda in the megaron, sitting on Tyndareus’s throne. She is sipping wine from a large cup, a golden circlet gleaming in her hair. Philonoe is huddled in her lap, and her raven hair falls on her forehead in smooth strands.
“What is it?” Leda asks. Her voice sounds hoarse, as if she were half-asleep. Helen and Clytemnestra walk closer to her, and the smell of wine grows stronger.
“Your father’s hunting,” Leda says. Philonoe shifts on her mother’s knees, searching for a more comfortable position.
Helen clears her throat. “We were looking for you, Mother.”
“Hmm,” Leda mumbles.
“Agamemnon beat another servant girl,” Clytemnestra says in as clear a voice as she can.
Silence. Then, to the sisters’ amazement, Leda laughs. Her voice echoes in the hall, like a war drum, then fades to nothing. Philonoe startles.
“I am not surprised,” Leda says finally. “Are you?”
Helen and Clytemnestra exchange a quick look.
“We should send him back to—” Helen starts, but Leda interrupts.
“Your father won’t send him away.” Her voice is cold, sharp. She drinks more wine, making her lips purple.
“He won’t?” Helen asks.
Leda shakes her head, caressing Philonoe’s hair.
“Which god is more skilled with the bow, Artemis or Apollo?” Philonoe asks, lost in her own train of thought.
“Both,” Leda replies lazily.
“I want to be an archer, like Artemis,” Philonoe says.
“Then go and practice.”
“I am tired now,” the child complains.
“Do you think Artemis is ever tired? Do you think she complains?” Leda raises her voice, her cheeks flushed. She is quite drunk. Philonoe scoffs and jumps down from her mother’s knees, hurrying out of the megaron. Leda pours herself more wine. “Your father won’t send the Atreidai away because they remind him of himself when he was younger.”
Clytemnestra opens her mouth in protest, but Helen is quicker. “Tyndareus is nothing like them.”
“He was, once. He and Icarius were exiled by their half brother Hippocoon, just like Agamemnon and Menelaus are exiled now.”
“I didn’t know any of this,” Clytemnestra says.
“You weren’t born. When your grandfather Oebalus died, Tyndareus became king of Sparta. But Hippocoon was jealous and cruel. He used to challenge men in the gymnasium only to punch them to death. Your father always said he was like that because he was not loved as Icarius and he were. He was not Gorgophone’s son, you see. Oebalus had him from another woman.”
Clytemnestra casts a quick glance at Helen, who is staring fixedly at her feet.
“As soon as Tyndareus was king, Hippocoon overthrew him.”
“But how?” Clytemnestra asks. “Surely Father was loved by the Spartans.”
“Hippocoon already had many sons from many women, most of them slaves. He had them young, when he was no more than fifteen. When your father took the throne, Hippocoon’s sons were of age and ready to fight for their own father, their own inheritance. Icarius and Tyndareus were exiled and Hippocoon took the throne for himself, slaughtered everyone who tried to rebel and sacrificed some helots to the gods to gain their favor.”
Helen looks shocked. Clytemnestra bites her lips. There are many things she doesn’t know about her father, about her land. Living in Sparta sometimes feels like being stuck in a swamp, the bog sealed around her feet, her eyes free only to watch for imminent dangers around her. But as soon as she tries to look beyond, the bog swallows her.
“So your father asked Heracles for help,” Leda continues.
“The greatest of Greek heroes,” Helen whispers, and Leda nods.